Burrow Closer To Me Still
by define-serenity
Summary: [Barry/Eddie] When he opens his eyes some of the heat has already left the bed – heat from two bodies entwined, a mess of limbs and lips unable to find peace. The toilet flushes and the bathroom door opens, an unkempt Barry Allen in an interesting state of undress carefully slipping back underneath the sheets. ONESHOT. COMPLETE.


Barry/Eddie, 1292 words, pg13-rated

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**_Burrow Closer To Me Still_**

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When he opens his eyes, the sheets background whispers to a few seconds' slumber, some of the heat has already left the bed – heat from two bodies entwined, a mess of limbs and lips unable to find peace, an uncoordinated bout of whatever-it-is-they're-doing. The toilet flushes and the bathroom door opens, an unkempt Barry Allen in an interesting state of undress carefully slipping back underneath the sheets. Barry settles warm along the left side of his body, tangles both legs possessively around one of his, an arm draped around his waist.

"You didn't fall asleep on me, did you?"

He cracks a small smile, Barry's sex voice deep and husky and nothing like its usual character; he had drifted off, somewhere in between chasing the last remnants of his release and watching Barry traipse towards the bathroom to toss the condoms in the garbage – it'd been a long day. "Only for a second," he confesses, the tips of his fingers running to and from Barry's slim wrist. "In my defense, I chased an armed suspect for six blocks and got shot at. Twice."

"I wasn't trying to give you a hard time."

Barry's almost vulnerable tone of voice is only tempered by the kiss he pushes to his shoulder, though he's heard it often enough in the short time they've known each other to track its cadence. They've tiptoed this fragile balance between joking and something more serious for a while now, some of their conversations marked by a weight sloping dangerously towards those real couples might have.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says, close to dozing off again so he redirects Barry's arm until his hand lies over his heart, hoping the gesture speaks a thousand words. They might not be a real couple yet, they've only done this a few times, but there's a duality in Barry that draws him close; the damaged yet kind boy, his fierce loyalty giving way only to the justice he seeks for his parents. There is a pronounced mystery to Barry Allen he wants to unravel, unwrap like a present of which he doesn't know the contents.

"Why don't we ever stay at my place?"

"Bar, you practically live in a dorm room," he laughs eyes closed, recollecting the small apartment. He doubts they'd fit in Barry's single bed, they'd challenge its dimensions in their untempered enthusiasm for each other's bodies.

Barry rolls onto his back, mirroring his position on the bed, save for the one leg he clings to. "I live somewhere I can afford," he mutters.

His eyes snap open at the darkened ceiling, voices from his past echoing politician's son. Incredulity rattles his bones as he turns his head. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, astounded that Barry would even sink to that level; he has money that's not his own, not entirely, but he makes a fair amount of his own – he doesn't take his father's money out of charity.

"Nothing," Barry sighs, drawing a hand down his face before he sits up, swinging his endless legs over the edge of the bed. "Sorry."

"Bar, where are you going?" He leans up on one elbow, eyes skipping down the distorted ladder of freckles scattered over Barry's back. "Come back to bed."

Barry shrugs into his t-shirt, discarded on the floor next to the bed half an hour ago while he'd sucked and nibbled behind Barry's ear, his hands roaming up and down his chest before their mouths met in a clash of teeth and tongues. He likes being with Barry, there's really no other way to say it, but right now they need to talk, they need to have one of those conversation weighted heavily around one single word: relationship.

"I'm going for a run."

"Now?" he huffs a laugh, though judging by the way Barry's shoulders tense at the sound he guesses his breezy attitude isn't going over well. He must've said something wrong. "It's the middle of the night."

"I'm going home," Barry adds tersely.

Oh.

"What is this?" He carefully strokes a hand down Barry's back. "What did I say?"

Barry stands before he manages to coax him any closer, hands at his hips, which proves he means business. "Honestly, Eddie, I have no idea what we're doing. It's fun and uncomplicated and I–"

He can't fathom the words Barry swallows down.

"But you treat me like a kid," Barry says, stepping into his pants, ranting while he gets dressed. "I'm not some cheap–"

That's when he sees it, the frustration ripping through Barry's veins, his mouth moving around things he doesn't want to say yet pour out all the same, all the in-between things they've both kept to themselves. Where is this going? What would Joe and Iris say? What would Director Singh do when he finds out one of his officers is sleeping with the forensic specialist? He's wondered too, late at night with Barry's face pressed into his chest; he's questioned his judgment in sleeping with his partner's surrogate son, the danger it could put him in, the mistrust it could start between him and Joe, between Barry and Joe, between him and the rest of his colleagues. It would be one thing if Barry wasn't a CSI, but they see each other every day, at the station, at crime scenes, they work together closely and one of these days someone's going to figure it out. If some of them haven't already.

Yet he's allowed it to happen over and over again, he's attracted to the gravity Barry exerts on the people around him and he fell just that little tad harder than everyone else. Especially when Barry lies sleeping on his chest at night, slobbering slightly.

He doesn't see Barry as a kid, not even close, he's a genius young man who grew stronger despite of everything life threw at him, a bumbling young fool quick to talk himself in a bind, but all that made him charming, not naive. Barry has lived through more than most people will experience their entire lives and it's made him kind.

"Barry," he starts and sits up in the bed, sheets bunching together at his waist. "I like you."

Two green-flaked eyes find his in between two of his heartbeats.

"Yeah, we're having fun, but that doesn't mean it can't be more."

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Barry's shoulders relax, though his jaw remains tense.

"Come back to bed," he says softly, pulling back the sheets begging for warmth again, petting the empty spot beside him, eyebrow raised in question.

Barry takes a deep breath, still high strung and uncertain of where to go from here. He can't blame him, the ground beneath them grows more fickle the longer they go, but there's no shame in what they're doing, and there's no denying their chemistry. So he hauls himself out of bed and walks over, completely undressed, drawing his hands down Barry's arms until he can grab his wrists and pull them around to the small of his back. Barry comes willingly and leans in, those wonderful few inches taller than him, their mouths brushing together in the sweetest of kisses.

"Go for a run," he urges. "Then come back to bed."

Barry releases a shaky breath, but nods. "Yeah, okay."

About an hour later he's roused by the quiet whispers of Barry's clothes skating over his skin again, a cold gust of air as he lifts the sheets and slips in behind him again. A hand draws around his waist, lips settle at the back of his neck, Barry curling around him entirely.

Barry pushes a kiss to his skin.

They'll figure things out.

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**_fin_**

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End file.
